


Lovers of Today

by Teland



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, First Time, M/M, Nobody Is Really Covering Themselves In Glory Here, Problematic Relationship Choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-12-17
Updated: 1998-12-17
Packaged: 2020-12-14 04:24:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21009689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: "You should get a lover, Mulder."





	Lovers of Today

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the Spike for beta!

Mulder took a pull on his beer and resisted the urge to   
sprawl back against the couch. It wasn't that there was   
anything wrong with the couch, really -- the yellow had   
probably once been virulent, but age and the dimness of the   
living room had rendered it a soothing mustard -- it was   
just the beer.

Gennesee Cream, known simply as "Genny" by legions of frat   
boys and those girls who would sooner miss a dose of Ovril   
than a kegger. Here, with the Gunmen, the appearance of   
Genny was the clearest possible sign that it was time to   
go.

Start him off with the good stuff, then work him down to   
the cheap. In all honesty, it had probably been time to   
leave when Frohike had broken out Milwaukee's Best -- the   
Beast -- Light, but Mulder really didn't want to leave at   
all.

It was warm here, and while Frohike had stumbled off to bed   
hours ago and Langly was taking a shower, John was still   
here. Next to him. 

Not too close, but close enough. Mulder could smell his   
cologne, light and somehow whimsical. For perhaps the   
eighteenth time he reminded himself to ask John what it   
was. Scully would probably like it.

Not enough to forgive him about the car keys, perhaps, but   
perhaps enough to let her be easier in his arms the next   
time he felt the urge to hug her for no reason at all.

The urge. 

Mulder was lonely, this much was clear. The holidays were   
over, leaving in their wake that vague sense of global   
morning after. A huge party that hadn't *quite* gone as   
expected. 

It was so easy to be bitter about the holidays. Why, there   
were a million new pop psychology buzzwords about it. It   
was practically *fashionable* to be down this time of the   
year. 

I'm in the mod, he thought to himself, and tried to smile. 

Mulder wondered why nobody ever talked about the morning   
after side of things. Sure, the holidays themselves were   
depressing, sad-making things, but the fact was that not   
*everyone* pulled out the all black clothes and bah humbug   
in December.

There was always that mild sense of 'well, at least   
*they're* happy' to fall back on, and while at the time   
such thoughts just jumped on the self-hatred and bounced...

Well, it was only afterwards that you realized the thought   
had actually helped. Now, there was all the company any   
misery could ever hope for, and yes, there were good   
reasons to be alone.

Or at least among the people you could count on being   
better adjusted than yourself.

"Mulder?"

"Hmm...?"

"It's four in the morning..."

"Time to go." Mulder sincerely hoped his voice spoke more   
of drunken slur than self-pity.

"Well, don't you have work tomorrow?"

John's voice was always so gentle. The man had never seemed   
quite... hard... enough to be referred to by his last name.   
Mulder did it anyway, though. There was something to be   
said for consistency.

"Nah. Took some time off."

"Really?"

The shocked disbelief *did* make him smile, and Mulder   
turned to look at the other man. His tie was loose, his   
sleeves rolled up, but Mulder didn't think it was possible   
for the man to ever actually look *rumpled*.

"Yeah, really."

He stood, a little shakily, and bent to place the half-full   
can on the table. When he rose again it occurred to him   
that it probably would've been a better idea to set the can   
down *first*.

"You really shouldn't drive..."

"I know. That's why *you're* driving me home."

"Mulder, it's late, and I've been drinking, too..."

"You've had precisely four beers in the past 6 hours."

That made John blush, and Mulder began to like the half-  
formed idea in his head better and better.

"You have a point. I'll just --"

"Look, if you don't want to... I don't want to make you put   
yourself out."

John looked at him then, really looked. Mulder wasn't   
worried, though. Disingenuous and manipulative, yes, but   
also quite drunk. Not very many people realized how much   
mindfucking he could really do with an alcohol flush,   
dilated pupils, and questionable balance.

The other man shook his head and grinned ruefully.

"I *told* them drinking was a bad idea. Do they listen to   
me? Nooo... Just suitboy's balls being strangled by the   
tighty-whiteys again..."

Mulder blinked once and swayed on his feet, and John's   
smile was suddenly a bit darker than it seemed it should   
be. 

"Get your coat, Mulder. I'm just going to tell Langly I'm   
taking you home."

The guilt about playing with John was fading rapidly in the   
face of a reckless sort of shock. "Since when do you need   
to verify your whereabouts with him?"

"Since we started fucking."

And, with that, John stood up and made his way toward the   
back. 

Leaving Mulder to think. This wasn't the way it was   
supposed to go. In the nascent fantasy, he'd slip into   
drunken slut mode, beg to touch John, beg to be touched in   
the sodden shamelessness of the quite late. And in the   
morning, the afternoon if he was very lucky or very, very   
good, they would agree to forget. 

However, the game couldn't be played unless John wasn't   
*really* aware of how much Mulder himself was directing the   
encounter.

The ignorance allowed Mulder perfect sluttish freedom, and   
John the ability to... play. Sure, there was also the   
burden of guilt to be considered, but Mulder wanted, very   
badly, to be played with. And he knew he could make it good   
for John.

Now, though... it was obvious John knew full well what   
Mulder wanted and there was a need to figure out just how   
he thought of that. Unbidden, John's "since we started   
fucking' rose to the forefront of his mind. While the idea   
wasn't precisely shocking, there was some question as to   
why John spoke of it *that* way. What was he getting   
himself into? How *would* John react to being used by   
Mulder? 

The question was, as always answered with another: How   
would anyone? 

But it was too easy, too facetious. No one gets through   
life without being used. And the whisper 'certainly not   
anyone with a life connected to your own' was old enough to   
be set aside for the moment. And yet, and yet... he was a   
friend. He was. 

When Margot had sent John back the wedding ring, after   
eight years of peaceable separation, Mulder had been there.

And catching himself in rationalization was a horrible   
thing.

When had he become so mercenary about emotion, friendship? 

I need, he thought, and hoped to God he was good enough to   
repay John whatever costs this night levied. But John   
wasn't back, yet. 

Mulder moved toward the sleeping quarters and tried to look   
like he was doing something other than listening to the   
harsh whispers from the darkness. In the end, though, the   
activity was pointless because all he heard was:

"...sleep, Langly. I'll be back."

And the brisk, efficient steps of a man on the edges of   
rage.

John didn't appear at all surprised to see Mulder so far   
away from the exit.

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah."

"We'll take my car."

"Sure."

Mulder watched the other man's eyes narrow at his quick   
capitulation, and found himself wondering how much he   
*really* knew about what Mulder wanted. He shook his head   
and walked out ahead of John, the warmth had become close   
in the last few minutes.

******

Mulder hated Volvos. Boxy, safe little things. While he was   
growing up, his grandmother -- the worst driver in the   
known universe -- had owned four of the things. Maroon,   
then green, then grey, then black. Over the years, she'd   
totaled them all, damaging the health and property of any   
number of bystanders, yet always making it out of the   
accidents unscathed. With her Bible.

It was enough to tempt anyone into the belief that   
Satanists walked among the faithful, not least because the   
woman herself was evil incarnate. 

John's Volvo, however, lacked the fundamentalist bumper   
stickers, the Bible sliding across the dash, and the vague   
miasma of brimstone and despair that might just have been   
the result of old ginger candy and evergreen car fresheners   
mingling over the years. 

John's Volvo was, in fact, rather personable.

For one thing, the interior was velour, and that made a   
hell of a difference when you thought about it. Leather was   
ice cold in D.C. Januaries, cracked and creaking;   
forbidding and harsh. You couldn't make velour harsh even   
if you subjected it to *years* of gospel.

And it smelled of nothing more ominous than that odd, spicy   
cologne he wore and... books.

Mulder leaned over toward the back seat, not bothering to   
pull back enough to avoid brushing John lightly with his   
hair, and rummaged until he found an old, beat-up canvas   
knapsack, flap open, contents spilling out randomly. 

Books. 

Not library books, just old paperbacks and a few   
hardcovers.

"I like to read in the car."

Mulder hadn't asked the question, but then he supposed he   
didn't really have to...

"Why?"

"It's... quieter... in here."

Mulder settled back in his seat and nodded.

"Back there... in the headquarters... Well, it's hard *not*   
to be doing something. Arguing, pretending to be appalled   
at whatever new foulness you've found to share with Langly,   
dredging the net for the flotsam of the powerful and   
stupid..."

"And here it's quiet, and yours, and nobody is going to   
make you spend six hours debating the meaning of Gorgik's   
collar."

Seen in profile, in the glare of traffic lights, John's   
arch little smile gained aspects of the demonic. "Or wear   
one."

Mulder shivered mildly. Volvos.

******

By the time they'd reached his apartment, Mulder had lost   
all desire to play games with John. He unlocked the door   
and walked in, tossing his jacket on the armchair, turning   
when he heard John close the door behind him.

"Can I get you anything?"

John cocked his head at him curiously. "What do you want   
from me tonight, Mulder?"

Ah, clarity. Nothing quite like it.

"I don't want to be alone tonight."

"I figured that much out."

Mulder chuckled ruefully and sat on the couch. "Take your   
jacket off and join me. Please."

John smiled and complied, ran the backs of his fingers   
along Mulder's cheek. He leaned into the touch shamelessly,   
closed his eyes.

"You should get a lover, Mulder."

"The fact that you're here right now doesn't say all that   
much for the proposition, Byers."

"Call me John."

"All right, John, but..."

The other man slid close, turned fully and kissed him.   
Mulder wondered when he'd had the time to eat a breath   
mint, but it wasn't at all curious to taste spearmint and   
beer on John's lips. It was, in fact, perfectly, nattily   
male, as was the tongue slipping easily into Mulder's   
mouth. Neat and right. Mulder suckled for a moment, but   
John pulled away before he could settle in.

"Who said I had a lover?"

And then John was kissing him again, and there was nothing   
to do but slump back a little and start undoing the buttons   
on his own shirt.

John's hand followed his progress for a while before   
detouring to toy with a nipple through Mulder's tee shirt.   
Briskly affectionate, gently matter-of-fact, whatever it   
was it felt *right* and Mulder arched into the touch and   
began to lick at John's tongue.

The hand left his nipple after far too short a time, making   
him groan in disappointment, but it only slipped down to   
his tightening suit pants and settled there. There was a   
thumb brushing along his fly, again and over and again, and   
John broke the kiss with a light nip at the corner of   
Mulder's mouth.

"What do you want tonight, Mulder?"

Tonight... tonight suggested other nights, but as he   
couldn't quite decide whether the prospect was terrifying   
or comforting, Mulder just let himself go a little more.

"What do you want to do to me?"

"Well, usually, the answer to that would be 'smack you,'   
but..."

"A spank is just a smack with a conveniency of placement,   
John."

The other man sucked in a breath and bit him once, just   
under the jaw. Perfect. 

"Your philosophy edges toward the disturbing, Mulder."

"Edges? I'm losing my touch... your beard feels wonderful."

"Where else do you want to feel it?"

There was something pleasantly shivery about a voice that   
sweet gaining a husk. "Don't tease me, just... just do   
whatever, John. I mean it."

John eased back and away, motioned for Mulder to lie down   
fully on the couch and began to ease his shirt away. Tugged   
at his tee until Mulder just pulled it off himself. 

"You always were beautiful, Mulder..."

But there was no worry about coming up with a reply to that   
because the soft brush of John's beard was roaming his   
chest like undiscovered territory, scratching and lovely on   
his nipples. Mulder buried his fingers in John's hair and   
held him close, tried not to push too hard. 

Tongue in his navel, sharp and intimate, and then John was   
looking up at him again. 

"Whatever."

Mulder felt no desire to hold back a chuckle. "Yeah, John,   
whatever."

"You discuss seduction technique with Langly, don't you?"

"Everything I know...."

"Don't frighten me."

"Could I?"

There was a pause in which Mulder was absolutely sure John   
was avoiding his question, but a surprisingly quick move   
had the other man at his ear, whispering,

"You want me to suck you, Mulder?"

His cock jumped and twitched within the confines of boxers   
and pants. There had been few times when Mulder had wished   
to be naked moreso than now. "Ahhh, fuck, John yes, you   
fucking tease..."

Wicked smile, curiously bright and defined against the   
darkness of beard, and then John was tearing -- efficiently   
\-- at his fly. A moment, a motion, and Mulder was in John's   
hand. Stripping stroke and he was crying out. Langly,   
suddenly, seemed like a lucky bastard.

And then it was all he could do not to wrench his own spine   
bucking hard because John was swallowing, swallowing him   
whole. Dark head bobbing above his crotch, heat and a   
clever tongue...

"John -- fuck --"

The languor of inebriation burned away rapidly under the   
assault, and all Mulder wanted to do was scrabble at the   
other man until he could get more, just more of whatever   
and everything else, too.

But then John yanked his pants a little further down and   
began brushing a knuckle against Mulder's opening. To that,   
there had never been any possible reaction but a helpless   
spread and a full-body moan. A sprawl of intentions, an   
easy death to weakened pride.

When John brought a finger up to Mulder's mouth he sucked   
it in deep, making an effort to please with the mimicry of   
John's continued attentions to his cock. The slide of skin   
over the knuckle was fascinating, intense, a sensual focus   
to ride out the sensations of being devoured, and make them   
last longer, too.

Mulder tried to map out the line of the metacarpal with his   
lips and tongue, grasped John's wrist when he tried to pull   
away and sucked harder.

Messy and hot, wet and sticky... Mulder wanted it to be   
daylight again, wanted to see John in this state. Wanted to   
see if that suit was anywhere near rumpled yet.

John released his cock with a wet smack, tonguing idly at   
the slit until cool air and the viciousness of the tease   
finally cut through the haze. 

"John, please --"

"I need my hand."

"Gonna give it back later?"

"No, but I'll give you something else..."

Mulder let go, and let himself be hypnotized again by the   
brief half-cheshire of another wicked smile.

John didn't take him deep again immediately, just looked at   
him seriously as he worked one wet finger inside him. 

"It's been a while, hunh?"

"You could say that... or you could just shut up and suck   
me some --"

One rake of John's finger and snottiness died hard with a   
landed-fish buck of the hips and a cry harsh as broken   
glass in the back of Mulder's throat.

The evening was turning out a lot better than he'd   
expected, and thoughts of the morning were distant and   
meaningless. Mulder lay back and opened himself to it,   
kicking off his pants entirely and throwing one leg over   
the back of the couch -- more to provide easier access than   
anything else, but he could *feel* John twitch at the sight   
and smiled lazily.

Another finger and it was a little painful, but that was   
all right because John was using his *other* hand to slap   
lightly and continuously at Mulder's cock. A subtle,   
stroking torture that had him writhing into the touch and   
working the fingers deeper inside. 

This could go on forever, as far as Mulder was concerned,   
but --

"Mulder --"

Sweet voice hoarse and ragged now, needful in that way that   
inspired any rational individual to bend and/or spread.   
There were times when Mulder thought of himself as   
rational. 

"Fuck me, John... I want it."

Full body shudder and John withdrew slowly to start getting   
rid of his own clothes, giving up on the shirt when the   
buttons proved recalcitrant. Toed off his shoes and socks   
and fumbled with his belt, which finally came out the loops   
fast and easy, and with low whoosh as it cut the air and   
yes, other nights seemed like a good idea. John snagged the   
pants before they could fall, though, reaching in one   
pocket for condoms and slick --

"When the hell did you have time to pick *those* up?"

"Who said they weren't on me anyway?"

And then John was kneeling back between his thighs, running   
a gently possessive hand over the one dangling over the   
back of the couch, then leaning in to rub his beard against   
Mulder's sensitive flesh. Mulder felt another load of pre-  
come shoot down his cock, and bent up awkwardly to rip the   
condom out of John's hand and slip it quickly over the   
other man's purpling cock. 

The resolve, the focused attempt to be more of a   
participant in this, died at the feel of all that sheathed   
heat and pulse. John's cock wasn't especially long, but it   
was thick, and definitely up there in terms of 'most   
beautiful things' -- at least at this moment. John pulled   
his hand away, and pushed him back, answering Mulder's   
frustrated moan with a slow stroke of body-warmed slick   
along his perineum and beyond. 

Inside again, more tease than test, and Mulder let his head   
fall back against the arm of the couch with a small,   
hopeful thud. And then John was slipping inside, one hand   
braced on a knee, the other tickling lightly along a thigh,   
urging. Easy request to answer and Mulder slipped his leg   
around John's waist and pulled him in tight, crying out at   
the sudden fullness.

John just knelt there and stroked Mulder's cock back to   
hardness, slapping at it lightly several times before   
beginning to rock. Mulder reached up and yanked the other   
man down by the shoulders, sucking his tongue into his   
mouth, begging for more, now. 

"OK, OK..."

And then John slipped almost all the way out before   
slamming back in, repeating the motion until he,   
apparently, lost the urge toward rhythm and just snapped   
and rolled. Mulder felt the other man's balls slap his ass,   
heard rough breathing and his own small sounds. He reached   
between them and steadied his own cock, letting the head be   
brushed by John's abdomen with each thrust, squeezing and   
stroking with small motions. 

Better, much better than he'd hoped and Mulder wanted this   
to go on forever, his ass, another man's cock, no worries   
beyond the hope he'd come first. And that was small in   
this, because John gave the same ruthless attention to his   
fuck as he did to anything else. Sweet, gentle man with a   
quiet inexorability that was currently turning Mulder into   
a slut, and an incoherent slut at that. 

Too quickly he felt the swirl and pull of his orgasm slam   
into the base of his spine and take up residence for those   
fleeting moments of near-pain on the edge of carnal   
salvation. And he was losing it, hard and unsubtle, calling   
John's name and bucking into the thrusts and his own   
pleasure. 

John rode out his orgasm, sweat dripping from his forehead   
onto Mulder's chest, and then continued to thrust, faster,   
harder; ragged and needy. Mulder just wrapped his legs   
around tighter and held him there for it, watching greedily   
for the --

"God! Mulder--"

\-- sight of utter abandon. John threw his head back and let   
out a series of panting moans and Mulder could almost   
believe he felt the other man come, deep inside him. 

A strained moment of tension above and then John was   
slumping on his chest, pushing at Mulder's thighs, slipping   
out with slow care. A few absent kisses, a lap at sweaty   
flesh and John was standing, shakily, and walking toward   
the bathroom.

Warm, damp cloth; another, deeper kiss, and John was   
standing again. 

"I take it you don't plan on staying the night."

"I told Langly I'd be back."

"If he's not your --" Mulder cut himself off, but his next   
line of thought wasn't much safer. "You're a lot like Alex,   
John."

Too late to bite back the words, so Mulder simply decided   
to look as calm as possible under John's long, measuring   
look. Yes, John, the same Alex I cried on your shoulder   
about a few years ago. The other man finally just shook his   
head and turned back to his clothes, eyeing the belt for a   
few moments, before just folding it and slipping it into   
his pocket.

"You should get a lover, Mulder. You should get a lover...   
and so. Should. I."

Mulder winced inwardly and felt himself getting angry. A   
lover, and obviously he wasn't John's concept of an ideal.   
He got up just long enough to snag the blanket from behind   
the couch, snuggled back into leather he knew would be   
uncomfortably sticky and cool in just a few minutes. 

Still better than the bed, though.

John paused at the door and smiled at him. "Get some rest,   
please?"

"Sure thing. Suck Langly goodnight for me."

Brief flash of anger followed by a low, humorless chuckle.   
"The things I do for the men in my life..." One last,   
dramatic sigh, and John was out the door. 

And Mulder was alone.

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~


End file.
